Keith Hayman




 Keith Hayman and Simon Gedye, display board for RIBA's forogtten spaces competition (detail), courtesy Studio Gedye
       
The Unregistered project was directly inspired by the work that artist Keith Hayman did with architect Simon Gedye around Cuthbert Bank. Their project was shortlisted and then commended for RIBA's forgotten spaces award.

  Keith and Simon were friends as well as work colleagues, and generously gave Art in the Park some of their time at the very beginning of the project. However, in a tragic turn of events, Keith died just a few weeks later. 
  At the end of the project, I met with Simon to celebrate Keith’s life, creativity and energy. It seemed fitting to frame the project in such a way, to recognise the influence of an outstanding man, and to dedicate our success to his memory. Click the link below for Simon’s words about Keith (audio upload in progress - watch this space!)



Keith Hayman, Drawing of Cuthbert Bank Pigeon Lofts, courtesy Studio Gedye

Keith Hayman, Drawing of Cuthbert Bank Pigeon Lofts, courtesy Studio Gedye

Keith Hayman and Simon Gedye, display board for RIBA's forogtten spaces competition, courtesy Studio Gedye

Keith Hayman and Simon Gedye, display board for RIBA's forogtten spaces competition, courtesy Studio Gedye

Keith Hayman and Simon Gedye, display board for RIBA's forogtten spaces competition (detail), courtesy Studio Gedye


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Exploring in partnership with Activity Sheffield


  During the project we teamed up with Activity Sheffield on a few occasions, to encourage people to explore their local spaces. We offered photography walks, drawing walks, and poetry walks. Below is a selection of work produced during these events.











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Workshops at the Zest Centre


Art in the Park teamed up with local health champions Zest, for a series of interdisciplinary and open access workshops based around personal heritage and the local area. The participants used words, photography and collage to create works that were displayed during the final celebration.



I lived on Parkwood Springs
We built an air raid shelter
Bombs dropped on Pickering Road
 
My neighbour had a garden
The most beautiful garden to be seen
He used the night slops
His lawn was the best, so green
and beautiful roses grew around the fence
 
Barbara Warsop
 

 

 
Bikes out the city
Top Gear Dawes to Clumber Park
Back to industry

-

I see the pram place now
viewed from out the hood
a lollipop for me –
a Silver Cross moment
and family allowance for all

 
Brian Holmshaw


Cuthbert Bank Pigeon Lofts, Barbara Warsop

 

 
Endless blue skies
The smell of burning wood
Walnuts fall from above

-

The river ran quick
From cherry tree maze they pass
Like chattering birds
Strange but familiar greetings
The honeymoon period repeats

 
James Jones

 
I remember the TV
a new-fangled invention
everyone came to watch
no washing machine
boiling nappies on the stove
till they came clean
-
First job at fifteen
was working in the steelworks.
Remembering the soot,
face was clean when I left home
but sooty when I got to work
 
Linda Charlton

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Growing Up on Parkwood Springs - Barbara Warsop

  Barbara Warsop was put in touch with Art in the Park through the Walkley History Project http://walkleyhistory.wordpress.com/. She has a collection of photographs of life ‘on the Springs’, and is writing her memoirs. She was enthusiastically involved in a number of project events, and was kind enough to let Art in the Park visit her at her home in Stannington. We had a cup of tea and a chat about her memories – click the link below to hear what she had to say (audio upload in progress, watch this space!).



Barbara and husband Les at their home in Stannington

What a view! The moors to the west...

...and the city to the east (including Parkwood Springs)

View from Parkwood Springs, after the building of Park Hill Flats but before the Arts Tower. Scanned slide, courtesy of Barbara Warsop

View from Parkwood Springs, after the building of Park Hill Flats but before the Arts Tower. Scanned slide, courtesy of Barbara Warsop

Barbara's slides (see images above)

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Growing Up on Parkwood Springs – Ray Swift

  There was once an estate on Parkwood Springs, where the remains of the Ski Village now stand. A few of the roads are still visible, either half-buried in trees and bushes, or lined with the temporary homes of travellers.

  The Friends of Parkwood Springs put us in touch with Ray Swift, who grew up on the estate (or the ‘village’, depending on who you’re talking to.) Ray is a friendly man who is quick to laugh. He was generous with his time and talked in depth about his memories, for which we are very greatful. Click here for Friends of Parkwood Springs http://www.parkwood-springs.btck.co.uk/, and click the link below to find out what Ray had to say (audio upload in progress - watch this space!).

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Dover Street workshops


  Art in the Park ran a number of workshops for young people and adults with learning disabilities at Dover Street daycare centre, Led by Annie Beech and Mark Doyle. Inspired by Cuthbert Bank, these workshops were themed around flight, and recreational activities.








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Wardsend Cemetery


Wardsend Cemetery


  Wardsend Cemetery is a historical site hidden behind the Owlerton Stadium. A good description of its history can be found on the Friends of Wardsend Cemetery site here http://www.friendsofwardsendcemetery.btck.co.uk/

  The ‘friends of’ group are proactive and friendly. They treated Art in the Park to an impromptu tour, for which we are very grateful. To hear the stories they told along the way, click the sound cloud links below. (uploading in progress - watch this space!).
Peter Quincey (left) and George Proctor of the Friends of Wardsend Cemetery




Bugler Boy

Boy at the last trumpet call
For the charge of the light brigade
Held a golden bugle to his lips
Sounding a valiant death.

Mascot Jim. With you we win.

He sent them to the guns.
He sent them to a Times editorial.
He sent them to Tennyson’s pen
That they should live.
He lies betrayed in a grave.

Mascot Jim. With you we win.
They promised to keep him safe.

I am drawn to his youth,
His brave vulnerability
And the irony of his resting place
In a disused Wardsend cemetery.

Mascot Jim. With you we win.
They promised to keep him safe,
But even his stone is toppled.

He was a chosen one,
Mascot of warriors,
Wide-eyed and ruddy-cheeked
Puffing wind like a renaissance cherub
Clad in red with a black box round his head.

Ian Enters


Art in the Park Photography walk through Wardsend Cemtery, led by Charlotte Newton







Wards End Cemetery

How we heaped the dead upon the dead.
Mary beloved wife of George
also the above, beloved George.
Words entombed on mossbound rock
which cannot truly speak
the world of bones, hidden
in this tiny plot
or evoke the tenderness they grew.
Their mysteries held by century old keys:
The voices of those who knew them.

When it is time to lay my bones
plant no headstone, mark no tomb.
For I am beloved of the earth.
Plant for me a tree, so in a century
its trunk can be my legend,
its branches hold my mysteries
and the light on green leaves
can speak truly of the beyond.

Martin Collins






Wardsend at the World’s End

No receptacles for flowers,
No flowers, but
Blackened stones like charred limbs
Twist through mud and moss.
Tiers of lurching headstones
Mark the damaged soldiers of Christ.
 Epitaphs speak the traditional woe
And hope for resurrection at a later date:
A bugler for the Light Brigade silenced;
Regimental honours- a Victory Cross
On a barracks’ burst blood-vessel, the martinet.

 Victims from Sheffield Flood settled here
In the hillside when the waters receded,
A chapel-reader when the chapel is no more,
A baby snatched by God on Christmas day.

 Among the fog-misshapen stone shrouds,
Isaac Howard, sexton and grave-robber,
Moves, tools in hand, to plunder.
He practises amateur dissection
On young bodies in his stable
And the stench from a gaping hole
Drives a woman to miscarry, or so she claims.

Sheffield loves to riot and here was cause
To burn a house and yard; to dig out graves
Where empty mouths gawp at empty coffins;
To bring out the dragoons to quell the wrath;
To rouse the wailings of bereavement
Unmediated by prayers.

 Walkers beware! Memories last
Among three thousand graves
Clutched above the Don and sliced by rail
In the neglected margins of manufacture
And Nature’s sinewy roots.
His wife escaped the flames,
But did she know her husband’s secret deals?
Where is his broken body?

 That flapping shred of cloth impaled on brambles
Is the last flag of his serge coat-tails
And, turning quickly on the slick-slime stone,
I catch a glimpse of a doughy face
And hear the thwack of spade on sod,
The mandrake shriek of metal saw
And the grinding winch lifting the lid
To find his dead ringer.

Ian Enters










Wire over water: 
lines sinking to shadow, light 
shifting the border.

Brian Lewis





We do not know the loss of children

No panel doctor scribbled. ‘Emphysema’. ‘Drowned.’
Instead she writhed in agony. This is not written down. 
Coke smothered in ‘12, or ’26 ? Coal tip lad all gone.
The family suffered twice for this. No bloody coal. No son.

Blanketed in bramble. For Job Broadhead we weep.
One moment there. Another not. Perhaps he fell asleep ?
Bereaved at the graveside stand, no shame.
And step away, meek as they came.

We do not know the loss of children. Who do cry foul, alone, 
speechless in their solitude, nerves stripped clean to bone
Instead our elders live forever, our children never die
and liquify the dark brown earth, or light up almighty Sky.


Brian Holmshaw





George Proctor representing Friends of Wardsend Cemetery at Art in the Park's Unregistered celebration

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